


Flight

by LittleWolfBird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, WIP, Work In Progress, long breaks between chapters, mostly book cannon, some show cannon, westeros au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22826248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleWolfBird/pseuds/LittleWolfBird
Summary: Sansa Stark washes up on the shores of the Quiet Isle.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 52
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1 - Washed Ashore

So often had the Gravedigger walked along the water’s edge that he no longer watched where he was going. He knew where every rock and root and sinkhole were. The only thing he did watch for now were things that didn’t belong on the beach. Bushels of food. Bundles of clothing. Batches of armor. Bodies. Bodies by far washed up more frequently than anything else, though even the dead count had declined as some semblance of peace fell over the realm.

Was it really peace though? If the smallfolk lived in starvation and terror while the high lords butchered each other at weddings and decimated their enemies?

It was true: the fighting had for the most part subsided.

With the obliteration of the Starks and the Northern army at the Twins, the Bolton’s, Roose with his bastard though recently legitimized son Ramsey, now ruled the North with iron fist. Riverrun still withheld the feeble Frey attempt at a siege. Rumor came saying that the Blackfish would only surrender and bend the knee once his nephew had been returned to him from Casterly Rock in order to take his rightful place as the Lord of Riverrun. With Margaery Tyrell married to King Tommen, the Reach sent food to the starving people of the capital. Though, some suspected that it wouldn’t last for long if the Queen remained in the custody of the Faith Militant. The Stormlands floundered successfully with no ruler, though the lords of lesser houses there dared not rebel against the crown and support Stannis. In general, they remained loyal to the King. The Crownlands had no choice but to remain content with the Baratheon-Lannister rule in King’s Landing if they wanted to continue being fed. Stannis of Dragonstone was off in the North, at the Wall, trying to save the world from Grumpkins and Snarks and all manner of creatures from a wet nurses’ fables. All that was known for true from that far North, was that the Autumn rivaled the worst Winter south of the Isle of Faces. At the other end, Dorne had submitted after the gruesome death of Oberyn Martell at the poisoned thumbs of the Mountain. It was said that the Princess Myrcella fared well there. Maesters reported that the Iron Islands had held a King’s Moot for the first time in 300 years and Balon’s daughter was favored to win. That is, until her uncle Euron appeared out of the blue and gained control. And in the Vale, Lord Baelish ruled after the untimely death of his wife, Lysa Arryn, while his stepson, the Lord Protector, was too young and too sickly. Many said that Robyn Arryn wouldn’t survive the winter and the line of the Arryn’s, who provided stability to the region for thousands of years, was all but extinguished.

Yes, some semblance of peace persisted but not many were content and even fewer were happy. And still, treasures and bodies continued to wash down the Trident and ashore of the Quiet Isle.

Ahead, the Gravedigger spotted a body. Others might have rushed ahead to gather the remains, but he knew better. There were still a couple hundred feet between him and it. Plenty of space for something smaller and easily missed to wash up. Besides, it was a cold, misty evening and those always caused a deep ache in the Gravedigger’s healing thigh.

The Gravedigger kept an eye on the body as he walked; he didn’t want it suddenly be swept out to sea. If a corpse reached their shores, the Silent Brothers were tasked with laying the dead to rest. It was believed that if they failed, the individual unburied would suffer in the afterlife. And women especially, as children were, were treated with extra care for their innocence in the crimes of war. And, as he got closer, the Grave digger was sure that this body was a young woman.

A woman with dark brown hair, if his eyes didn’t lie to him. The cold water lapped at her hips and chest. Her arms were splayed in awkward ways that would surely hurt if she were alive. Her clothes, wet and clinging to her sallow and nearly translucent skin, were not that of the usual destitute women seen ashore. They were well made, heavy, and, if not soaked, no doubt they would be warm too. She was no high born either. One of them, a highborn lady, had never washed up on their humble beaches. But her clothes were much too simple, too particle, and too bland in color to be that of a castle born and bred lady. The Gravedigger had been around many a proper Lady in his previous life to know.

Kneeling in the waves at her side, the Gravedigger observed the woman. He found to obvious wounds without touching her. Perhaps she drowned? Or was stabbed in the belly? It would not be unheard of for a young wife to throw herself over a bridge upon hearing the news of the death of her husband, brother, father, son. She was young though. No older than five and twenty but no younger than eight, maybe seven and ten.

 _An innocent,_ thought the Gravedigger. He knew a maid about the young woman’s age years before, in his previous life.

As part of his penance, the Gravedigger rolled the body onto her back to gaze upon her face. He did the same for every corpse he pulled from the water’s grasp. He remembered nearly every face he had studied and buried in the more than year he had been gravedigging on the Quiet Isle.

Gently, he pushed her brown hair off her face. She was warmer than he had expected. A fresh death then. There were still bandits tramping around the Riverlands, terrorizing those loyal to the crown. They’d sacked the Saltpans. Perhaps she was another of their victims. She wasn’t bloated of waterlogged yet either though.

The Gravedigger kept finding his attention fixated on the dead woman’s nose. The maid he had known had a nose like hers. The maid was the one for which he could never truly repent of his sins. Perhaps this woman was to serve in the maid’s place. Perhaps the Gods were giving him a change to do at least _one_ thing right for the maid, even if it was by proxy. He knew that he would be spending the rest of his life, however long or short that may be, repenting and paying penance for his actions towards the maid, even long after all of his sins had been forgiven. Only the Maid herself could forgive the Gravedigger of his sins against her. But she had perished in the War of the Five kings like so many others. He would never get the chance. He supposed that t it was the only appropriate punishment; purgatory in perpetuity.

Swallowing, the Gravedigger stabbed his walking staff into the sand, to mark where he should start his walk in the morning. He straightened the woman’s clothes before he lifted her into his arms, cradled against his chest. Standing, he turned off the beach and began the slow hike across the island to the Elder Brother’s office hut.

First, the woman would be bathed and dressed in clean, modest, simple clothes. Then, she would be carried to the sept where a vigil for her would be held; day and night, for twenty-four continuous hours of prayer. While the brothers prayed, the Gravedigger would dig her grave.

He was not a praying man; had not been a religious man before being rescued by the brothers of the Quiet Isle. In truth, he still was not, but he had enough respect, at least for the men of the small island, to follow their rules and customs. Prayer though? The Sept? That was one step too far.

After the vigil, the brothers would follow the Gravedigger to the burial place and silently pray while he shoveled dirt, though in recent weeks it was more like mud and snow, over the deceased woman’s body. Then, they would continue on with their tasks and wait for the next body to need their assistance into the afterlife.

Almost to the Elder Brother’s hut, the Gravedigger froze. He looked down at the woman in his arms. He held his own breath as he watched her. There! There was a beat, a pulse in her neck. There! He could now see her chest rise and fall too slowly. He started running as he could.

This woman was alive.


	2. Chapter 2 - Memories Unbidden

“She’s alive!” he bellowed, shouldering opening the door to the hut. The Gravedigger paid no heed to who else was in the room, or even _if_ there was someone else in the room. It could wait. Nothing was more important in the moment. This tiny woman was _alive_ , and freezing, and nearly drowned, and _alive_.

“Brother you forget your silence,” the Elder Brother chastised as he rose from his seat at the hearth.

“Bugger that,” the Gravedigger growled. “Let’s save the living. Not bury the dead.”

The Elder Brother cleared off the wooden table in the middle of the room.

“Place her on the table,” the he motioned.

The Gravedigger laid the woman on the table gently. He slid his arms out from under her. But he didn’t remove his hands until he saw her chest rise and fall twice. She was still _alive._

“Brother, help me undress her.”

“What?” the Gravedigger’s head snapped up from the pale, purple face of the woman to the wrinkling, caring face of the Elder Brother.

“She will surely catch her death if she remains in her drenched clothing.”

“Why me?” he croaked. “Can’t you alone?”

“We do not know her injuries. One man could cause too much damage. I am still recovering from my illness last week. I am too weak to work with her myself. You are strong,” he said, stating the obvious, “We must treat her like an infant. I need your help for that.”

The Gravedigger nodded at last, relenting.

He gulped once then began helping the Elder Brother with the ties on the woman’s dress. The wet material was hard to grip in his big fingers. Carefully, they pulled her arms out of the dress before sliding it down her shoulders. The Gravedigger cradled his hand under her head and lifted her to a sitting position; his other hand supported her back. The Elder Brother pulled her bodice and shift down to her hips, accidentally ripping the thin fabric.

The sound wormed its way into the Gravedigger’s memories.

_“Ser Boros, make her naked.”_

_The sound of the pretty dress ripping echoed in the Hound’s ears. He could do nothing but stare at her face, red and wet with her tears; her lips curled inwards as she held back a sob. Her thin arms crossed, her tiny hands trying to cover her bare breasts, her pale creamy shoulders rolled forwards protectively._

_“Beat her bloody for all the Lannister blood her traitor brother has shed.”_

“Brother!”

The Gravedigger found himself back in the Elder Brother’s hut, holding up a brown-haired girl, nearly blue with cold.

“Brother lay her back down.”

The Gravedigger laid the girl back down on the table. He lifted her hips and the Elder Brother pulled her dress the rest of the way off her body. He then made quick work of her wool stockings. She wore no boots or shoes of any kind. She was now completely naked. Elder Brother pulled thick blankets from the chest in the corner. The Gravedigger could only stare at her face, refusing to look anywhere else. _But that nose…_

“Help me wrap her, Brother.”

Together, the leader and the follower tucked the blankets around her small frame.

She began shivering; her entire body convulsing. Though the Gravedigger took this as a somewhat encouraging sign, – after all, until this point, she had not moved of her own accord in any fashion – he knew that she was still too cold. Only the blasted Gods knew how long she had been in the river. And with the Autumn temperatures plummeting at random lately, even during the day, it was a wonder that she still lived. The Trident often had sheets of ice floating in it now.

 _Winter was coming_.

“Brother close the drapes on the window tight. Throw the bed sheet at the foot of the door – cover the crack. Build up the fire. We, you and I, should be sweating; then we will know it is warm enough for her in here.”

The Gravedigger did as commanded, ever the good soldier and quick to follow orders. He pulled the drapes closed and even hung a thin blanket over it for extra measure; their glass windowpanes were not thick. He stuffed the bed sheets under the door. When he turned to the fireplace, the flame now burning low and the coals glowing hot, he paused for only a moment. _Fire…_

He couldn’t save _her,_ the maid, the caged bird. But maybe, just maybe, the Gods were giving him a chance to save another in her place. It wouldn’t be the same – he didn’t know this woman – but perhaps it was enough to start to bring him some semblance of peace.

Resolved, the Gravedigger knelt heavily on the stone hearth. His left leg stretched to the side, stiffening from his run. He used to be in better shape than this! A short jog up a small incline carrying a woman no heavier than full plated armor, a great sword, and other protection should not pain him as it did. He must exercise the leg more. Maybe stretch too, for the position he sat in was causing him to feel his muscles in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. It felt good.

He threw some thin twigs on the tiny flame, to encourage it to grow. Then he added bigger branches. When those started to catch, the Gravedigger built a structure with large, thick logs that he had chopped himself. These logs would burn hot and slowly. And there were more in the basket to the side, ready to be added when the temperature cooled too much in the room.

“Forgive me Elder,” the Gravedigger rasped when he tried to rise, “my leg has grown stiff. I cannot stand on my own.”

“‘Help will always come to those who ask,’” he replied, aiding the brother to his feet.

“Which of your Gods said that?” he asked.

“None of them,” replied the Elder, turning back to the young woman. “It was a faithful servant of the Seven, a devout man of unprecedented abilities; Brother Albus. Much of what he taught has become practice throughout the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Does the wisdom allow us to treat her though she cannot ask herself?” the Gravedigger wondered, moving back to the side of the table.

“Sometimes words are not possible. Do all broken bodies not scream for aid?” was all he replied with. “We must check her for injuries now.”

“But she is still so cold.”

“Better to do so while she is unconscious than wait for her to warm up. She will ask for modesty and I do not want to wait three days to bring in a Septa from Maidenpool. That is _if_ she wakes. And we do not know what injuries she might have. You, brother, will act as my witness to responsibility and discretion.”

“As you wish, Elder.”

The Elder Brother pulled back the blanket, revealing her pale body entirely. As he did so, he commented, “ah, I can feel the heat from your fire already. For a man afraid of the flame, you are knowledgeable in building a strong one.”

The woman shivered and her skin prickled with goose flesh as the cold room air met her body.

“I’ve lived through enough Winters. I’ve led the soldier’s life. Fire is the only defense between the cold and food that kills.”

The Elder Brother made a noise in agreement and started with her head. He searched her scalp and face and neck but found no injuries there. The Gravedigger thought that he saw a tiny scar on her lip, the bottom left-hand side, but perhaps it was just a trick of the flickering fire, both in the hearth and from the candles. The Elder Brother moved to her arms. He checked her joints for mobility, her elbows, shoulders, wrists, and fingers, but found no outright problems.

 _Her hands are dainty_ , the Gravedigger thought, _she hasn’t known hard work until recently._

“Those calyces are relatively new,” he said aloud.

“So they are,” the Elder Brother agreed. He moved onto her torso, examining her flesh and prodding on her ribs. “She has never been with child. She has no bairn marks on her stomach and her chest does not yet sag with the milk of motherhood.”

The Gravedigger kept his eyes on her belly.

“Brother Sangane hold the candle closer for me please. I need light on this spot.”

He picked up the candle burning the brightest – probably with the freshest tallow – and moved to the other side of the table with the Elder Brother. Together, they leaned down and the leader pointed out what had troubled him.

“I cannot make out what causes lasting marks like these,” he muttered to himself, running his wrinkled fingers over her skin.

“A mailed fist,” the Gravedigger knew at once. “I’ve seen men in fights come away with these marks. I’ve seen women, girls, with the same. It looks years old though – I’ve not known them to stay for so long. It must have been a strong fist indeed.”

“Of course. It has been far too long since I’ve been in an army of violence. I have forgotten what men are capable of.”

“Men should not hit women.”

“No, Brother, they should not. I agree,” the Elder Brother sighed. “It is a shame that such a pretty thing has witnessed and received such an act. Please keep the light steady how you have it – it is very helpful.”

The Gravedigger straightened up but didn’t move the candle away.

The Elder Brother moved down her hips and legs but found no other markings. He folded a blanket in half and rolled the woman onto her stomach, with the aid of the Gravedigger.

The Elder Brother gasped at the sight but the Gravedigger looked on, nearly unfazed.

“Oh, you poor, sweet child,” the Elder Brother whispered as the light illuminated her back. “Maiden, Mother, Crone, bless this child with a healed heart and body to account for the pain inflicted. Father, Warrior, Smith, bless this child with the protection man denied her for she cannot defend herself. Stranger, bless this child with justice of the crimes committed for the laws of men have failed her.”

“I’ve never known you to ask for violence, Elder,” the Gravedigger murmured, unable to take his eyes off of the welts on the woman’s back and thighs, when the prayer had concluded.

“Justice, my Brother, justice,” he insisted as he began his examination once more. “But as a man, a mere mortal man, with a tender heart, if those who committed such actions fall on hard times, I shall not feel bad for them. Hard, agonizing times…These scars would have been quite painful upon infliction. They are more than a year old though – you can tell because they are no longer hard, but rather softer, blending in by touch with the skin around it. And they were caused not by a whip, as I have seen on prisoners down in Dorne. No, something more ridged I would think.”

The Elder Brother moved down her buttocks to the back of her thighs. He pointed to a pale line that ran across both legs; as though some maester had drawn in a straight line with white ink. “These two are deeper than the rest. A cut, not a welt. A sword perhaps. Yes, that could be it. Not a direct hit, but one at an angle enough to cut. Given that, I wonder if the marks on her back are from the flat of a sword.”

_Ser Boros pulled his sword, fast and expertly. He swung with no restraint and landed his blows on her legs. The maid withstood only two strikes before falling to her knees with a small yelp. He continued with his lesson against her back._

_“Enough!” The Hound shouted, just as Boros prepared for harder lashings._

“Did you hear what I said, Brother?” the Elder Brother asked.

“Forgive me, Elder, I found my thoughts elsewhere.”

“That is twice in a short time,” he commented pointedly. “Is there something you would like to discuss?”

“I…” the Gravedigger found his voice failing him.

The Elder Brother waited patiently. As he did so, he gently rolled the woman back on her back. She was not shivering as she had been and the blue tinge to her skin was fading quickly.

The Gravedigger was at a loss and caught his eyes roaming her body though he saw not what they took in. What he did recognize was the swatch of curls at the apex between her thighs and his knees felt weak, though not from exertion. Only one woman had ever had that color…

“Little Bird,” he whispered, his voice gravely and strained; his knees suddenly gave out.


	3. His Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gravedigger struggles to come to terms with who is on the table before him. The Elder Brother discovers a secret closely kept by the Little Bird. 2388 Words. TW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on _Flight_ "Memories Unbidden": The Gravedigger and the Elder Brother work tirelessly to save the woman who washed up on the shores of the Quite Isle. But in the examination for injuries, the Gravedigger comes to the shocking revelation that this woman is someone he recognizes.

**TRIGGER WARNING:** mentions of rape and physical abuse

“Little Bird,” he had whispered.

“What was that Brother?” the Elder Brother looked over at his follower.

The Gravedigger didn’t hear him. He whispered to the woman on the table, “You escaped your cage, but at what cost, Little Bird? Where have you been? Where did you fly to?”

The Gravedigger no longer was speaking to the brother of the Faith. He placed a callused hand on her smooth upper arm, like he had roughly done so many times before. Never skin on skin though. This contact was new. She was still so cold – not like he had imagined her to be. He always thought her to be warm; she was kind and full of a rare light. He feared she wasn’t thawing fast enough, so he pulled the blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders.

_“What is the meaning of this!”_

_The Imp stopped the beating before Ser Boros could place steal and mail on her bare skin again. The Little Bird tried hard to weep silently as her shoulders caved in protectively around herself, her arms crossed and her hands holding her growing breasts; hiding from the eyes of the court._

_“Do knights now beat helpless maids?”_

_“The ones who serve their king do,” Ser Boros replied, drawing his sword._

_“Eh, eh, eh,” the sellsword at the Imp’s side tsk’ed. “I would think carefully if I were you; I wouldn’t want to get blood all over my pretty white cloak.”_

_“Someone give her something to cover herself with,” the Imp commanded._

_The Hound stepped forwards, pulling of his own white Kingsguard cloak off as he walked down the steps. On the lower bailey, he tossed his cloak at her so that it fell over her, draping her and dwarfing her. She was so small. She grabbed at the edges with her tiny hands and pulled it tight around her._

_That was the first time he had given her his cloak…_

“Brother, you have lost yourself in your thoughts again,” the Elder Brother said kindly, a hand resting on the Gravedigger’s shoulder. “What troubles you? Who is Little Bird?”

“She is,” he whispered.

“This woman?”

“Yes.”

“I fear I do not understand.”

“I know her,” he confessed.

“How can that be?” the Elder Brother wondered. “We do not know from where she comes.”

“Be that as it may, I was there when she received the beating that the scars on her back show. I did nothing to stop it or to prevent it.”

“Perhaps it was another woman you must seek forgiveness from, not this one—"

“No, this is her.”

“Did you know when you found her?”

The Gravedigger shook his head, “no. The nose, it reminded me of the little caged Bird I knew. The scars did too, when you found them. But I thought them just similarities.”

“Then how are you so sure it is this…your little bird?”

“The color of her hair.”

The Elder Brother drew his eyebrows together, confused, “Brother, this woman has dark brown hair. You’ve previously described the girl – to whom I assume you are now referring to as Little Bird – as a young maid with auburn hair the color of the autumn leaves in the Westerland Hills or the color of the fire that both ruined your face and is saving this young woman’s life now.”

“It must be a dye,” the Gravedigger insisted. “Her other hair is the right shade.”

The Elder Brother glanced down, as though looking through the blanket and squeaked out an “oh.” He pondered this for a moment while the Gravedigger re-tucked the blankets around her, though they hadn’t been disturbed.

“And you are sure?”

“As sure as the scars on my face.”

The Elder Brother nodded. “The Gods were merciful to her then.”

The Gravedigger growled, “No Gods are merciful if they torment the innocent and throw gentle maids into icy rivers.”

“Perhaps – though I am inclined to believe that it was man who did those things to this young woman, not the Gods,” the Elder Brother countered. “What I mean to say, is that the Gods are merciful for bringing her to you.”

The Gravedigger snorted but made no reply.

“Consider how many bodies we know that do not wash up on our shores. The current could have swept her away, never coming close to the Quiet Isle. No one would be the wiser and she would be out at sea by now. If not dead from drowning, soon dead from the cold, or perhaps a sea creature. Instead, she is here. You have found her and she is still alive. No, my brother,” the Elder Brother shook his head, “the Gods are merciful on her, just as they are on you.”

“How?” he wondered, his voice soft and deep.

“They have provided you a chance with saying what must be said and doing what must be done to clear your conscious and put your soul at ease. You will be able to make your peace and let your anger and hatred go at last. You have a chance at forgiveness.”

“If she wakes.”

“Aye.”

“If she survives.”

“Aye, this night is crucial and with the rising sun we will know better if she might live.”

“Will you tell me to find another Brother to take my place?”

The Elder Brother thought long about the question. Silence fell on them. The Gravedigger anxiously re-tucked the blanket multiple times. Then he added another log to the fire; it wasn’t hot enough yet. He was sweating but she was still shivering.

“No,” the leader said at last. “I will not ask you to replace yourself. It would be improper to expose this maid to another set of male eyes. We must keep as much propriety as we can for her.”

“But I know her. It is her,” the Gravedigger explained, almost as if trying to convince the Elder Brother to force him away. “And you know what I’ve confessed.”

“I do. I have heard everything, and I have thought much on the subject.”

“My thoughts were…not pure.”

“Yes, I remember. But I also remember the other things you have told me about her. This is also why I will not force you to leave her side. I do not think you would listen if I asked and I know there is not a man on this isle that has the strength to force you. You may remain at her side. Take care of her, protect her. As you were unable to do in the past.”

“Thank you,” the Gravedigger whispered, saying the words he had barely any use of before now.

“But…”

The Gravedigger looked up at the Elder Brother. The look of conflict on his face worried him.

He growled, “Spit it out.”

“There is one last thing I must check, one last thing I must examine, in order to declare her whole – despite the hyperthermia. It could give us a clue as to what happened to her.”

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

The Elder Brother finally met the Gravedigger’s grey eyes. “I must check to see if she has been raped.”

All the air escaped the Gravedigger’s lungs. He’d been kicked by a horse once – this was a similar sensation.

Raped?

_The Hound slashed through the beggars and thieves and insignificant rats like butter. She was on her back, on the cobble stones, on a few unlevel steps, floundering and whimpering; trying to fight off the three grown men around her, on top of her. The front of her dress was already pulled open, revealing her coreset underneath. Her skirt that kissed the ground was hiked above her knees, exposing her pale pink thights, wool stockings, and simple boots._

_Smoothly, with skills refined thousands of times, on the training pitch and in battle, the Hound pulled his sword from its sheath at his hip. One man lost his head in a clean swipe from left to right; the other lost his arm at the elbow from up to down; and the third, he received a sword through his heart, a pull back and thrust outward._

_He bent over, grabbed her arm, and pulled her up out of the growing pool of blood. He tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Her delicate fingers searched for something to grasp. He felt her dig her nails into his mail shirt when she found purchase. He left the alley and slew any man who ran at them, his free arm wrapped tight around her thighs._

_His horse was still standing where the Hound had left him – no peasant dared approach the war horse, just as dangerous as his master. He threw her on the saddle and climbed up behind her. He pulled her upright, to sit in front of him, sideways. With his arms encircling her, he flicked his wrist, nudging with his heels. The horse set off at a gallop, the small folk leaping out of their way._

_The little bird tightened her arms around his stomach, pressing her face into the metal of his breastplate. She sobbed but she was safe now._

“Brother I must…” the Elder Brother insisted. “I must examine her now. The longer we wait the more likely she is to wake. I think you should remain by her head, for modesty’s sake – you are neither a maester nor a sworn brother of the Faith. I must examine her.”

“Can I stop you?”

“It would be unwise. She may not tell us when she wakes about what happened to her. Or what circumstances led her to be unconscious in the Trident. If we find out now, we can spare her the shame of conversation. Then we could instead just care for her in silence and love. With compassion and understanding, whatever the outcome may be.”

“Get on with it then.” The Gravedigger turned his attention back to her face. He brushed her hair away from her body, silently lamenting the loss of her natural color.

The Elder Brother stood at the end of the table and rolled up the blanket just to her hips. He parted her legs, and with a glance to take note of the closed, white knuckled fist of the novice, he began his examination.

It did not take long – only a few minutes. The Elder Brother rolled the blanket back down and tucked it around her feet. He washed his hands in the basin by the window.

“What did you find?” the Gravedigger asked, fear in his quivering voice.

“Your Little Bird has not been raped,” he declared.

“But?” There was an edge to the Elder Brother’s voice that the Gravedigger caught. More was to be said.

“I had thought your Little Bird married.”

“Aye, she was, is, to the Imp of Lannister.”

“This…complicates things.” The Elder Brother turned to sit on the chair at his desk.

The Gravedigger watched his every move but never took his hands from the Little Bird’s hair and arm. “What complicates things?”

“I am faced with a dilemma where one option seems more plausible, and I am inclined to believe it, but I think you will insist I am wrong.”

“Stop with you riddles, old man,” the Gravedigger barked.

“Brother, either this maid is not the young woman you believe her to be, or the youngest Lord Lannister never took his rights on their marriage night – or any night thereafter.”

“What are you…are you saying…?”

“Yes, Brother, this woman still has her maidenhead intact.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

“The Imp is a very physical man. He enjoys his whores more than a soldier. I find this hard to believe.”

“Like I suggested, perhaps, this is not the girl you sought to protect in King’s Landing.”

The Gravedigger shook his head vehemently, “This is her. I have no doubt. She is older, taller, more…shapely, more like a proper woman then when I last was in her presence. She is no longer the girl I once berated. She is a fully blossomed woman now.”

“Then her marriage to Lord Tyrion was never consummated.”

The Gravedigger could do nothing but nod, though relief flashed on his face. “What do we do now?”

“We keep her warm and hope she soon wakes,” the Elder Brother instructed. “Already her complexion is pinking up. This is a good sign. Stay with her.”

“Where are you going?”

“I will go get us a tray of dinner that we missed.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” the Gravedigger mumbled.

“Neither had I, but if we are to wait out the night with her, we will need to keep up our strength. I will also get some honeyed milk to nourish her until she wakes and can eat on her own. I feel she looks on the thin side.”

“Aye, she was always a small lass, but she is too boney now.”

“Brother…”

“Yes Elder?” the Gravedigger looked up as the leader approached the door.

“I am still going to send for a Septa from Maidenpool.”

“You cannot say who she is!” the Gravedigger growled. “Her identity must be kept a secret.”

“While we have a female guest and she is poorly, it would be proper to have another woman to care for her.”

“Yes, but—”

“I will not tell anyone we have a woman here, neither will I say who she is. For her safety.”

The Gravedigger nodded, “that is good.”

“But I also would like this Septa to confirm my observations. We will send a letter to the High Septon and dissolve the marriage between Lord and Lady Lannister.”

“Oh.”

“It would be advantageous to rid her of the chains of her Kingslaying husband. She will do better in this world without him, wherever he may be; may the Gods judge his sins fairly. Perhaps then she can find and marry a man who will do his duty, providing her with sons, and, if the Seven have heard my prayers, it will be a husband who will not mistreat her.” The Elder Brother waited for the Gravedigger to respond but none came. He nodded and unlatched the driftwood door. “I will be back soon Brother. Keep her warm and the fire hot. Put on a kettle too.”

With a rush of cold sea air, the Elder Brother walked into the frosty autumn night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually I don't post so soon after a chapter update but I want you guys to know what's going on so here's where I'm at:  
> \- I have been struggling with writing this fic (I'm sure some of it has to do with the pandemic etc.) ut a lot of it has to do with feeling inadequate to writing a period fit. Plus, I have so many ideas that come down the road in the story but I have to GET there first.  
> \- comments are down, which I hate to admit really boost and motivate me. I've never been one to inspire lots of comments; lots of readers yes, but not ones that like showing me their reactions. I love getting ANY sort of feedback, good or bad; I love suggestions, predictions, complaints, random thoughts, all of it.  
> \- my pain levels are up, which doesn't help with wanting to do anything much less write.  
> \- online university is really starting to kick my ass.  
> \- I have so many ideas floating around in my head that I'm struggling to focus on just one story and write it. So a lot is being written but not necessarily in the same story.
> 
> Anyway, I hope to have a new chapter by May or so. Thanks for understanding.


	4. Fighting for Her Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gravedigger and the Elder Brother discuss what will be done concerning their high profile patient while the Gravedigger warms her up. 2380 Words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on _Flight_ : The Gravedigger struggles to come to terms with the woman on the table before him, with having pulled Sansa Stark, half frozen and half drowned, from the Trident. The Elder Brother discovers that not only was Sansa Stark not raped, but also that her marriage to the Imp was never consummated. The Lady is a maiden.

When the Elder Brother, returned sometime later, and opened the door to his Hermit’s Hovel, he was alarmed to see that the young woman was no longer on the table.

“Brother?” he called out.

“Shut the bloody door old man, she’s only just started to feel warm!” the low voice cried out.

The Elder Brother did as he was asked, placing the tray of food on the table before he tucked the sheets back under the door. He looked around and found the Gravedigger sitting close to the fire in one of the plush chairs. He was shirtless. The young woman, the Little Bird, was curled up on his lap; her head tucked against his chest, her hands bunching up the blanket around her chin, her knees against his ribs, her toes tucked between his thigh and the arm of the chair. The Gravedigger had his right arm wrapped around her legs, his palm on her thigh; his left held her body and rest on her hip. The blankets covered them, though an exposed shoulder told the Elder Brother that the Little Bird was now wearing the Brother’s tunic.

“This is highly inappropriate,” he chastised softly as he sat across from the victim and her rescuer, watching them intently.

“Fuck being appropriate,” the Gravedigger growled. “She was still shivering, and I couldn’t get the fire any hotter or bigger without setting fire to the whole damn hut. I have plenty of heat for the both of us.”

“You’ve discarded your robes. She wears your tunic.”

“There was one winter, when I worked for the Lions still, it was so cold; the fires couldn’t keep us warm; no amount of furs protected us. We took to sharing sleeping mats. We found skin-on-skin contact worked the best at keeping our warmth. That was how we survived.”

“Do you mean to confess to—”

“No,” the Gravedigger interrupted, “we lay like I am now; we left our breeches on. The majority of the warmth comes from the body anyways.”

“Why have you put her in your tunic then?”

“It is not proper to go through your belongings to find a clean tunic. Her own shift is still soaked. I knew you would not approve of the closeness were she naked too. My tunic is thin enough she can still receive my heat. It is the most appropriate option I came up with.”

The Elder Brother could not argue with his logic. “Be that as it may—”

“When I first picked her up, to dress her, she was stiff and oddly limp at the same time. I sat and had to force her limbs with more strength than I thought I should have to use, just to make her comfortable. But she soon started to move of her own accord. She curled up in this position herself.”

“This is good news, indeed,” the Elder Brother agreed. Though he did not whole-heartedly approve of the method, his novice’s work was beginning to pay off. He asked, “Has she woken? Has she said anything? Even in sleep?”

The Gravedigger shook his head, “No. I wish she would wake, to know if she is in any pain. She hasn’t, though she did start to make noises shortly before you returned.”

“She is responding nicely to your ministrations then. You’ve done will Brother.”

“What did the cooks prepare for dinner?”

The Elder Brother smiled; the novice was ever one to ignore compliments.

He answered, “They have made mutton with mashed potatoes and salt. They were able to make a bit of gravy too. Tomorrow we will have Haggis.”

“Your Gods have given you a good meal.”

“Yes, we have been blessed this day, in more than one way,” the Elder Brother agreed.

“I don’t see it,” the Gravedigger mumbled, looking down at the woman.

“I have asked the others to also prepare the fur to be made into a shall or something of the like, for our guest here. She is in sore need of warm clothing.”

“How long will you allow her to remain on the Isle?”

“As long as it takes her to recover. We do not ask those in need to leave – especially women and children. The tanner has scraps of left-over leather and fur; he will make her a pair of strong, strong boots for the coming winter. We have no seamstress and are currently low on fabric, so I have asked the brothers sent to fetch the Septa to bring wool and textiles back with them. We will see what our Clothier can do with them.”

“If she wakes, she can help sew her own clothes,” the Gravedigger added. “She is deft with a needle, makes pretty things with string, but used to make her own clothes before she came south to court.”

“Perhaps we can ask her to help with the mending while she recovers.”

“Aye, that would be good.”

“Here,” the Elder Brother stood and passed the Gravedigger his plate of food. “Can you manage with her on your lap?”

“She weighs nothing, and my arms can fit around her more than once,” the Gravedigger responded. He held the plate with the hand around her back and ate with the other.

He was right, the Elder Brother observed, she did not hinder him at all.

The Brothers ate quickly in silence. The large man mumbled his thanks when the elder took his plate and replaced it by pressing a cup of watered wine into his hand. When the goblet was empty, the Elder Brother returned their dishes to the tray. He poured the honeyed milk from the jug into a small tin cup.

“Try to get a little into her mouth,” he instructed. “Not a lot, we don’t want to choke her, but she should have some nourishment tonight. Only the Mother knows when she last had a meal.”

The Gravedigger nodded, tilting her head back enough to expose her lips. He held the cup up to them and whispered, “come on Little Bird, just a little sip. It will help.”

The Little Bird whined, parting her lips as she did so. The Gravedigger took the opportunity and dribbled some of the liquid on her tongue. She licked her lips like a suckling babe. Her lips remained parted. The Gravedigger poured some more. She accepted the milk eagerly.

“Look at you, Little Bird,” he cooed after a few minutes, “you’ve drained the cup.”

“We’ll wait a bit to see how it sits with her stomach,” the Elder Brother said, taking the cup from the Brother’s hand. It was as if he hadn’t said anything at all, for all the younger Brother heard.

The Gravedigger wrapped his arms back around the Little Bird, pulling her closer to his chest. She shifted her head, snuggling into the warmth of his body. Still, a chill ran across her.

“Can you add another blanket on us?” the Gravedigger asked. “And a log to the fire?”

“Certainly.”

The Elder Brother tucked the blanket around the two of them. Only her head could be seen. His upper arms and bust were exposed. His features were at a state of such peace the Elder Brother had never seen on his face before. He added the log and settled back into his chair.

“Brother,” he began. The Gravedigger looked up from watching her face. “I dare not speak her name aloud. None of the Brothers on our Isle will repeat what has washed upon our shores, but I do not want to tease the forces of Evil just the same. If she is in fact who you say she is—"

“She is.”

“—then she is wanted by the Queen as an accomplice to her husband’s murderous actions against King Joffrey.” He paused, looking for the words and choosing them carefully. “I do not think it right that I call her Little Bird. That is _your_ name for her. But nor can she remain nameless. What do you suggest we call her, to keep her identity a secret for as long as we can?”

“I lost a squire in battle once named Sabas.”

“She is a highborn lady! We cannot call her by a man’s name.”

“What better way to protect her identity than dress her as a young man and call her as such?”

“She is _not_ a young man. She does not look like one.”

“With the right clothing and perhaps leather armor to straighten her curves, she could pass.”

“A haircut will need to happen then.”

The Gravedigger nodded though he looked sad at the thought, “I know.”

“And she should not speak.”

“Aye, her voice is sweet and as feminine as they come.”

“So we will call her Sabas,” the Elder Brother said.

“Sssss,” Sansa said, trying to speak.

“Aye, little…Sabas. Sabas, that is your name,” the Gravedigger whispered. “You know who you are. And I know who you are. We must protect you now.”

“San…” she said, drawing out the vowel so that it sounded like the noise a child makes when a maester is checking their teeth.

“I dare hope she knows your name, Brother,” the Elder Brother smiled.

“I don’t know if she’s ever said it, to me or anyone else.”

“Regardless, it is good that she is responding. Even if she is not waking yet, she is making progress faster than I thought she would.”

“And if she wakes before morning?”

“I should like her to stay inside, away from the elements and eyes. For her health and for her safety. That is, until the Septa arrives.”

“But we don’t need a Septa if we are passing her for a boy.”

“True,” the Elder Brother said, pondering. After a minute he suggested, “Septa’s have more use than accompanying young ladies and verifying their maidenhood. They possess knowledge that I do not. They work more closely than I have with maesters. Yes, that is what we will say if asked: we have need for their wisdom.”

“Why not just send for a bloody maester?”

“Septas are women of the Faith. They represent the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone. They can bless and provide comfort in ways a Septon cannot. Even men and young boys need the comfort of the Mother at times. The Septa will be able to bring solace to the Brothers of our Isle at the same time.”

“Sounds reasonable enough,” the Gravedigger barked. “But even when she gets here, I will not leave her side.”

“I understand. You found the lady, you saved the lady, and now you feel responsible for the lady. You want to stay and care for her. And so you shall,” he agreed. “And when she wakes, you will instruct her on the ways of her new life, the ways of being a man, and the way of life here on the Quiet Isle. And when she is strong enough to work, you will accompany her in her tasks. Or perhaps, she will accompany you. Claiming a long-healed head wound will allow her to be simple of thought and action and in need of a constant companion. Brother,” the Elder Brother held the Gravedigger’s gaze unwavering, “I know that you oppose lying more than any man of the cloth. In that regard, you are more holy than I. But I implore you to accept this lie. Memorize it, be familiar with it. Help her learn and remember it, and her new place in this life – how ever temporary or permanent it may be. This lie will save her life and keep her from whatever, or whoever threw her in the Trident and from what will befall her if she is sent back to King’s Landing.”

“I have no qualms about lying for the Little…Sabas.”

“Really?” this surprised the Elder Brother.

“I’ve lied before, to save her from punishment. I’ll do it again as long as I have to. I owe the Little…Sabas everything.”

“This is startling but not unwelcome news. You have changed much since you first came to us, Brother.”

A knock came at the door. The Elder Brother rose and answered it. An old proctor whispered to him about it being time for prayer in the Sept.

“Of course, I will be there shortly for Night Prayer. I will check on the patient once more and make haste.”

The Elder Brother closed the door. He moved a side table within reach of the Gravedigger and placed the cup and jug of honeyed milk on it. He then placed the pitcher of watered wine and the Gravedigger’s goblet next to the milk.

“Do you need anything else from me before I retreat for prayers?”

The Gravedigger shook his head. “No, Elder, I should be fine.”

“Good. Oh, remember that she, that Sabas will need to make water at some point. There is a clean chamber pot behind the screen. I trust that you will use decency and discretion with your care of her?”

“I’ll not hurt Little Sabas. I promised her that years ago.”

“One last thing…” the Eldar Brother began in contemplation, “When Sabas wakes, if she does know your name, and wants to call you by it, encourage her not to. The Hound has not been dead long enough for Sandor Clegane to reemerge to the world.”

“No amount of time will be long enough, Elder,” the Gravedigger replied with an irritated chuckle. “But if Little Sabas insists on calling me anything, aye, I’ll be sure to let her know I am known as Brother Sangane Hill on this Isle.”

“All brothers take some combined name of their past life as their new name in their new life. We take the bastard name to remember from whence we came. We cannot forget the past if we hope to make the future stronger.”

“Little Sabas Snow then.”

The Elder Brother smiled. “Yes, the name has a nice ring to it, like your own. Sabas Snow. I will return, Brother. And I shall pray to all Seven Gods for Sabas’ quick recovery.”

The Gravedigger did not respond as the Elder Brother opened the door once more and stepped out into the night. The wind was picking up and a storm was brewing. He hoped it would not hinder the Setpa’s journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, new chapter. I've been in a writing funk the past month or so. I hope this is holding up to standards! Kudos and Comments (of any kind) are appreciated and loved!


End file.
